


The Escort

by lokidreamsinbw



Category: Marvel, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Loki's a lost soul in this one, M/M, Millionaire Thor, This One Is Dark, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokidreamsinbw/pseuds/lokidreamsinbw
Summary: Loki AU. Loki is an escort, hired by Thor, a rich business man, to spend one week with him. Will love bloom or will Loki’s dark secrets ruin everything?





	1. Chapter 1

“Loki, my dear. He is willing to pay a fine price for you.”

It’s the middle of the day. Heart of July. Augustine is sitting out there on the porch, leaning back in his chair. His ankles are crossed, the right one over the left one and his black leather shoes look almost silver in all that white light. His squared chin is resting against the palm of his hand and those bony fingers with their thin nails the color of skimmed milk are casting long shadows across his face. Only a part of that shocking blue iris of his left eye, and a corner of that mouth are visible. He’s wearing a cream colored suit, white shirt, no tie. The two top buttons of the dress shirt are undone and the skin sleeping underneath is golden and warm.

There is one glass on the table and a pitcher filled with iced water. The ice cubes are floating close to the surface, and when Augustine uncrosses his ankles to cross one leg over the other, his knee bumps the edge of the table gently and the pitcher shakes and the cubes make a fuss. Clink, clink. Augustine leans forward and moves the pitcher a bit to the left, as if that would calm all those raging waters now splashing against those heavy walls of glass. The noise annoys him.  
He leans back in the chair and turns his head to the side to catch a glimpse of all those glass buildings blinking in the sun like faraway stars. He owns some of them but he doesn’t give a shit about the view, he’s just passing time until Loki comes back with their drinks.

He presses his palm over his mouth and runs his fingers over his lips. He’s waiting for Loki to say something, but all he gets is the sound of a cupboard opening and closing, then the clink when two glasses share a crystal clear kiss. Well, it’s not so surprising, really. Loki is one of the quiet ones. He’s one of those people that no amount of time spent looking into their eyes could reveal to you anything about what’s going on inside them. Most of his clients describe him as a riddle, one so tough you cannot solve, and that’s one of the reasons they keep coming back for more. This guy, with all his silence, is one of the most sought after escorts Augustine had ever had. Augustine’s business is up and running for almost ten years now-beautiful men that look like models you can only find on the covers of some expensive fashion magazines have come and gone, but none of them leave such an impression in their client’s minds like this one does. What is it about him? Is it the mystery? Is it that haunted look in those pale eyes that awakens something in their soul and sets fire to their hearts?  
Augustine should know. That long body was his for a while when Loki first started working for him. He takes all his boys for a ride before giving them their first paycheck, it’s just how he rolls-you need to check the goods before putting them on display for everyone else to see, right? And it doesn’t matter that these days his body belong to everyone else, given they have enough money to afford him of course; Loki was a nobody and Augustine made him a somebody so Loki knows his place and knows just who owns that body that once made its way around town in a pair of torn jeans and a t shirt with holes in it and now walks down the same streets in a young, fresh Armani suit. He would never dare to bite the hand that fed him, or should we say the hand that shoved money down his pocket in exchange for him to go down on his knees and reach for the belt with those delicate hands of his.

Just two hours ago, Augustine had coffee with a potential client. The man found Discreet through an ad online and was interested in trying them out. Over the phone, he told Augustine he’d never done anything like this before, but said the ad looked interesting and he wanted to give it a go.

“Let’s have lunch,” Augustine said to him, “we’ll have a drink and I’ll show you our boys so you can choose the one you’d like to meet. Each one has a different price, of course. None are cheap, but some of our boys are more expensive than the others. It all depends on how much you can afford to spend. I hate to say it, but we here at Discreet, place a price on the human heart. Although it’s not much different than falling in love with some young nymph sitting on a terrace somewhere, smoking in the sun, and showering him with innumerable gifts, am I right?”

The man on the other end laughed softly. It was quiet and humorless, but breathy and warm.

“Money is not an issue,” he said and in a matter of minutes they decided on a place.

It was one of those restaurants where you need to make a reservation a year in advance, but for this man not having a reservation wasn’t an issue at all. He asked for a the best table they had and over lunch and coffee looked over the photographs, scrolling up and down with his fingertips, his hair-the color of the bracelets that had weighed down on Ramses’ wrists- combed back and secured in a ponytail, sleek and looking like pure sunlight.

There was a sudden shift in the man’s eyes when he spotted a boy he liked-Augustine saw it and knew, before the man slid the phone back to him across the white tablecloth with the photo still in place, that he, like all the others, has fallen for Loki.

“This one,” he said to Augustine, and suddenly he was awake: that apathy, that boredom in his eyes was gone like magic. He was sitting tall in his chair, looking like a magnificent creation of god in his tailored grey suit, alert and alive, and Augustine pulled the phone towards him across the surface of the table and gazed down at the boy in the photo.

“Ah-” he said to the man, “him.”

The man raised his brows at him and leaned back in the chair.

Augustine stared at the photo for a few moments with the rich scent of the red wine filling his nostrils and his face burning hot with the overhead lights. It was a headshot of Loki. His lips were a bit parted, his lashes black like midnight. And there they were, those large eyes holding within them all the secrets of the world. The man didn’t even click on this photo to go to the next one which was a full body shot-he chose Loki based on his face only.

“Magical eyes this one has,” Augustine said to the man who listened to him with close attention, “they bewitch them all.”

Clink.

Augustine looks up. Loki walks over to the table and places a glass full of brandy in front of Augustine before taking a seat in the empty chair on the other side of the table. There’s just the one glass: Loki isn’t drinking with him.

“A week,” Augustine tells him, “he wants you for a whole week.”

“But he hasn’t even met me,” Loki says and leans back in his chair.

“I know,” Augustine says and takes a sip of his drink, “I’ll be damned if I get it. I’ll be damned if I get any of this.”

The sun is hot and blinding. Loki squints and tucks a strand of hair behind his left ear. He turns his head to the side and there under all that burning white light, every tiny wrinkle and every single pore are gone, and there’s just that circle of light twinkling in his left eye and the almost metallic shine of his black, black hair. And Augustine watches him over the rim of the glass, tasting euphoria and brandy on his tongue. He watches that arm resting against that bare chest, the tips of Loki’s forefinger and middle finger hiding behind his ear while the other fingers rest loosely folded against that delicate palm. He notices everything about this: the shadows trapped there underneath the fingers looking like spilled ink, the soft curve of the wrist, the sharp angle in which the bone is sticking out, and just how thin those nails look. Loki does this sometimes-he tucks his hair behind one ear and forgets to put his hand down and it’s delicious to look at. And Augustine watches him playing with the ends of his hair, smoothing them between forefinger and middle finger and pushing up with a thumb. He only does this once or twice before slipping a fingernail between his teeth, biting down once and dropping his arm in his lap, where he plays with his fingers.

“Nervous?” Augustine says and his breath fogs up the inside of the glass.

“Should I be?”

Loki isn’t looking at him at all. His gaze is traveling high over the buildings like a star kicked off its orbit.  
Augustine looks him over, his lips turning up at one corner against the thick glass, “your answer to my question, my dear, stirs some kind of enjoyable confusion in my mind. It hints towards calmness, or, dare I say it, indifference. While, at the same time, your body hints at the opposite.”

“Does it?”

Loki breathes in and Augustine follows the movement of his ribcage; Loki’s lips suck all that sunshine in, but inside him all the light in the world will never be enough to chase away all that darkness he has collected over the years like others collect stamps or postcards.

“It does,” Augustine says and his voice comes out muffled.

He raises the glass to take another sip and watches Loki through it. The brandy taints his skin a soft shade of honey.

Loki only raises his eyes higher until the light bursts in through all that divine blue and turns it white.

“Ah,” he says, “the very same question rumored to have kept generations of philosophers up at night: do we trust what we hear, or do we trust what we see? Do we dare trust the mouth? So far it is from the heart. Keep a dog close to you and it will obey you; set it free and watch it show its true colors. The shoulders are closer to the heart. The chest too. And the hands? Extensions of the heart itself, they are. And what if that heart is a liar? Then the hands, they lie too. Quite complicated, I must say. Will definitely keep me awake tonight.”

“Is that sarcasm I detect there in your voice, my dear?”

“Is it?”

“Must you answer everything with a question?”

Loki grins and raises his eyes to Augustine’s, and with devilish delight accentuates every syllable, “must I?”

Augustine pauses with the rim of the glass resting there against his bottom lip and looks at Loki without blinking. Loki looks back, and little by little his grin fades away like daylight. But the muscles don’t relax, there is tension around his eyes and around his mouth and his gaze is untamed and accusing. Old fires of rage caused by injustice are burning inside him and it should make Augustine feel uneasy but it doesn’t. He missed this rebellious look in those eyes, hadn’t seen it for a long time and it feels like seeing an old friend again. But it disappears just as quickly as it had appeared in the first place when Loki presses his lips together and lowers his eyes.

Augustine swirls the brandy in the glass and flexes his ankle.

“I trust neither,” he says, “not your mouth. Not your body. And certainly not your heart, my dear boy.”

Loki pushes his chair back and stands up. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans but the top button is undone and he tugs on them so they hug his hipbones and buttons them up, long fingers twisting the flat golden button into place. He’d just gotten out of the shower when Augustine walked into his living room, key in hand. He has the keys to all his boy’s apartments-all of them are his after all.

Loki has no shoes on and the tiles are burning hot. There isn’t a bit of shade anywhere out there and he can feel the warm breeze stopping for a little rest right there in the hollow of his throat. He walks over to the railing and slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The metal is pressing against his abdomen, and his skin stings. His hair is still wet but he can barely feel the water droplets trickling down his spine because by the time they leave the back of his neck they are so warm that when they move it just feels like air gliding and that’s so easy to ignore.  
Augustine pushes his chair back and gets up, drink in hand, other hand tucked deep inside a pocket of his cream colored dress pants. He walks over to Loki and stands next to him. Loki is tall, but with these shoes Augustine is taller than him and it makes him pull his shoulders back, push his chest out, thrust his chin high into the air. And he watches Loki, studying that young face with its thin nose and secretive mouth and those lashes long and curling at their ends and his hands remember the feeling of his skin underneath his fingertips all too well.

“You bewitch them all,” Augustine says to him, “how? He took one look at your photograph, and I could see it in his eyes, that look that one might get upon gazing at the face of death and finding it irresistible. Black magic, I dare say.”

And he passes the glass over to his left hand to free his right, before running his palm over Loki’s hair. Down it goes, the tips of his fingers running through those waves of dark waters, and Loki tenses beneath his touch, eyes staring straight ahead, not meeting his. Then, Augustine reaches the back of Loki’s neck and grips it, thumb gently pressing on the jugular while his other fingers bathe in the dampness of the skin of his throat. And he presses his lips to Loki’s ear and says, “the work of the devil.”

Then, “be here at four thirty. I gave him your address. He’ll send someone to pick you up. Don’t be ungrateful. Show him love. Lie to him with this lying heart of yours, just as you lie to them all.”

After Augustine leaves, Loki takes the brandy and sits on the floor. He places the glass right there in the middle of his palm and holds it up to the light; the glass isn't smooth, it has all these ridges and he thinks that if he'll take all the other glasses out and place them one next to the other on the table he could recreate the temple of Zeus bathing in gentle sunlight. He had seen a photo of it once in one of his textbooks-it was in black and white like the rest of them but his mind painted every column in a light shade of bronze, added a gold sheen to the wind swirling around them in an ancient dance and colored the skies a bright tone of Malachite. For all the other kids in his class, these photographs, taken so long ago by a wrinkled pair of hands, printed in black and white because the school couldn't afford expensive textbooks that make you dizzy with all their colors-meant nothing at all, but to Loki they were magical portals to places with so many stories, so many tales of bravery and lost loves and mythical creatures that can break a city apart with a single breath, or reach high up with their long fingers and break off a piece of the moon. They were places he could escape to when things got rough. All he needed to do was study the image until he could feel that ancient air filling his bottomless lungs and the wind brushing the redness from his cheeks, and close his eyes; and the bed and the walls and the ceiling so close to his face would be no more-he would be free.

Loki lies down and raises the glass in the air. Augustine didn't finish his brandy. The bit that's left there looks like caramel in the sunlight-the color of his mother's hair. And he runs his thumb across the thick surface of the glass and the light drowns in the brandy and it turns fiery red.

Once, there was a prince.

Loki blinks and his mother's voice is soft in his ears.

His name was Celestial.

He looks at the brandy swirling there in the glass and all that red are leaves swaying from the branches of that great maple tree that stood outside his bedroom window back at his childhood home.

It is said that this prince had loved a boy dearly. Beautiful he was, that boy, and his heart pure it was, and innocent. One day, they had walked the golden fields together, hand in hand, until sunset. The prince had heard a noise coming from the forest and let go of the boy's hand, eager to explore, to discover. And in those moments of abandon, the night enveloped the boy in his embrace and when Celestial turned around to reach for his hand, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Consumed by grief, Celestial searched for him by sunlight and moonlight, walked the lands of the earth until his feet bled and in a final act of love tore his body to pieces and each piece became a star so that their light could be seen from every corner of the earth, banish all the fear from his beloved's heart and guide him back to him.

Loki raises his eyes to the sky.

Celestial watches over us all. His light will always be there, to guide us. To remind us to hold on to each other in the dark so we wouldn't get lost. To remind us that we are loved.

No stars for him. Only this white blinding light of the afternoon sun. He looks at the brandy one last time before placing the glass on the floor. The maple tree vanishes along with all its dancing leaves and that caramel color of his mother's hair vanishes too and when he closes his eyes he can't even see her at all anymore.

He should be checking the time on his phone. He should be getting ready. He should be standing there in front of the mirror in the bathroom, looking at that face that's always changing, because each time someone touches him something dies in his eyes and turns his face into the face of a stranger. But he stays there on the floor, eyes closed; face turned to the side, palms facing up, lashes fluttering and feels the sunlight moving across his body, signaling the passage of time. And the ice cubes melt, and the water in the pitcher turns hot and the air smells like brandy and somewhere someone is sitting on a bench made from a maple tree with its red leaves long gone, lost in some wind, forgotten.

Then, someone walks in, wearing a pair of boots by the sound of it.

Malachi.

"You're not dead, are you?"

Loki keeps his eyes closed.

Malachi kicks the front door with the heel of his boot and it slams shut.

"Man, I can smell the brandy from here."

Loki opens his eyes , grabs hold of the glass and slides it across the floor. He watches it skid across the tiles until it hits the tip of one black leather boot and Malachi bends over to pick it up.

He gives it a swirl and the glass turns dark red.

"Nice."

He finishes the brandy in one gulp, sticks two fingers inside the glass, one thumb out, and takes it to the kitchen for a refill. Loki watches him moving from the fridge to the counter and back again-he's wearing a pair of white jeans and a black t shirt that only has one sleeve and his dark brown hair is combed back looking all wet and he smells amazing. He grabs a knife, a plate, some bread and a jar of strawberry jam and that bottle of brandy and walks out to the porch. He tilts the pitcher a bit to the side to make sure there are no ice cubes left in there because he likes crushing them between his teeth and listening to that crisp crunching sound, but there are none and he pushes a chair out of his way and sits on the floor next to Loki. He sets everything down and twists the lid off that jar of strawberry jam and sticks the knife in.

"You know," Malachi says, "there were times when I didn't have anything to eat for like a whole week and I used to stay up at night, because, you know, when you're hungry you just can't sleep, it's impossible, it's like your stomach is telling you: go and take care of this. Feed me. So, I'd stay up and this is all I could think about, this thing right here. Screw potatoes and steak and stuff like that. Bread and strawberry jam is all I wanted. Once it's in your mouth and you feel just how sweet it is, everything else just goes away. I can eat this stuff forever."

When Loki first started working for Augustine, this guy right here was the only one who didn't treat him like trash. He kept an eye on him and made sure the other guys weren't giving him any trouble. And Loki watches him dipping that silver blade in the jam over and over again, scooping up more of it each time and spreading a thick bright red layer of it on a slice of soft white bread. When he's done, he takes a bite, and washes it down with some brandy.

"Your hair's wet," he says and runs a wave of Loki's hair between his fingers.

"I know," Loki says and reaches for Malachi's pocket.

Malachi takes another bite, "Augustine was here."

Loki fishes Malachi's phone out, "how did you know?"

"You hate brandy."

Loki checks the time. He has one hour left before that someone comes to pick him up. He pushes the phone back into Malachi's pocket and props himself up on one elbow. Malachi hands him the bread and Loki takes a bite. The jam is sweet and cold and the sound of the seeds popping in his mouth rings in his ears.

"He set me up with this guy," Loki says and hands the bread back.

"Who?"

"Didn't say."

"Did he show you what he looks like?"

"No," Loki sits up and slicks all his hair back, "just told me this guy's paying for a week with me."

"We had this happen to one of our guys before," Malachi says, "that man turned out to be a total jackass and after the week was over the poor guy was ready to quit the whole thing. It's one thing when they want to spend the night with you, but it's totally different when you're stuck with them for a whole week with no way of getting out if things get rough, it's fucking insane."

Malachi sticks the blade between his lips and licks it clean.

"I can't say no to this," Loki says.

"Yeah," Malachi says, "it's like, we have a place to stay now, we don't need to worry about being hungry or freezing cold or something, but it's like, nothing's real. You don’t own this place here, I don't own the place I'm staying at, he owns all of it and if I decide one day that I'd had enough and I want to be the one that gets to decide who I want inside me and who I want out, all of this is taken away from me and I'm back to square one. But hey, listen. You call me, alright? Something goes wrong and you call me and I'm coming over and fuck all of this, I'm getting you out and we're making it on our own. You hearin' me?"

Loki smiles at him and nods and when Malachi finishes up and says goodbye, he gets dressed-a tie and a vest this time, with his hair combed back, his skin smelling of soap. And when it's time to go he makes his way down the stairs and stands there in the street waiting for the car to pick him up.


	2. Chapter 2

It's hot outside and the sidewalks look like they're made of cigarette ashes. The heat rises from the ground smelling like traffic and rust and Loki thinks of Malachi-he's one of those summer creatures, a ray of light torn from the sun and given a human form; he could care less about waiting out there in this heat but Loki is finding it difficult. It feels like he's standing before an open fire and he's sweating under the collar. He gives it a tug before turning his attention to his sleeves-they are rolled up to his elbows and with a forefinger and thumb he fixes the cuffs in place while keeping his eyes on the road. He has no idea what car it's gonna be, it has to be one of the really expensive ones that drive so smoothly that it feels like the tires are sliding across heaps of whipped cream and there could be a pot hole the size of a football field right there underneath it and still you wouldn't feel a thing; one of those cars that have super comfortable seats that make you want to set your bed on fire because it never was and never will be that comfortable; one of those cars that smell like heaven and have windows so clean that it looks like there are no windows there at all; one of those cars that make people stop and stare.

Loki is wearing a light grey vest with a crisp white dress shirt underneath it and he has a silky black tie on resting comfortably around his neck, light grey pants, black shoes-no watch. Augustine always tells him to never go meet a client without one around his wrist because it looks unprofessional, but Loki hates watches. He has one made of gold, the color of a snake's eyes and another one made of white gold that looks like it's made of diamond powder. The first one was a gift from Augustine for being a good boy, the second one was a gift from Hirsch- a regular client of Discreet, a soft spoken, grey haired gentleman very fond of calm purple suits and striped ties. 

He doesn't have a watch on but he does have a bracelet-two pieces of black leather wrapped around each other, one of the few things he's taken with him from home before turning his back on that place, walking away and never looking back. 

Loki brings his wrist to his mouth and tugs on one of the leather straps with his teeth until it fits nice and snug around the bone and he still tastes the leather on his tongue and it's bitter and warm and it stings. 

And there's his duffle bag on the bottom stair and it has some clothes in it and a book about a blind man driving around the US with this guy that comes up to him in this diner and asks if he needs a ride and they have a blast but Loki is only one third in so things can still get really fucked up very quickly. It's called 'Dust' and Loki thinks it sounds just like 'trust'. 

He lights one up and all that smoke making its way towards the clouds makes it look like the skies are on fire. Loki hops on the railing and smokes there in the sun-he manages to slaughter around three cigarettes before the car arrives and there it is, the way the car glides down the street like it's sliding on butter and its brand new. 

The driver spots Loki and heads for the curb and Loki hops down, throws the bag over his right shoulder and as he walks towards the car the driver lines it up with the sidewalk and comes out a few seconds later. 

The driver is one of those people you can never get their age right-platinum golden hair and eyes so beautiful you can only find on postcards with their color of well kept secrets. He walks with the grace of a dancer and holds the door open for Loki.

"Thank you," Loki says and the driver finds a place for his bag inside the spacious trunk. 

Loki heads in and it's just like he'd imagined and he hates everything about it. The seats are black and he can see himself reflected in the ceiling because it's like a mirror and the car shakes when the driver slams the trunk's door shut. 

Loki sits next to the window-it's always been his favorite spot, and puts his earphones in. He shuffles through his playlist while the driver gets ready to go and once they're off, he presses play on Caruso singing 'Una Furtiva Lagrima' and the entire world just fades away. 

All those brand new never before opened bottles standing there like miniature columns in the mini bar are there just for him. There are crystal glasses there just waiting for the touch of his fingers and the glass of the bottles is so clean it makes it looks like the alcohol in them is just floating in the air. Some of them look like perfume bottles and there's champagne on ice and the cubes keeping it chilled look like diamonds. Bright white napkins stand inside each glass, folded like leaves made of frost and the surface of the mini bar shines metallic grey. The curtains are pushed to one side so all this golden daylight rushes in but it feels nice because it's chilly in there and with his fingers starting to feel stiff from the cold it feels good to have the sunlight slanting across his face and sending a warm lazy lick down the side of his neck. 

Enrico Caruso died in the summer of 1921 and his embalmed body was kept in a glass sarcophagus, put on display for all those who wished to gaze upon the broad sleeping face, gaze at those silent lips, large ribcage sealed in a fine black suit and mourn the loss of a most beautiful voice. And Loki looks at his own reflection and reclines in his seat, laying his head back and watches his reflection's pale eyelids drop. He relaxes the muscles in his face until all the tension is gone and lets his lips part. His hair falls over his shoulders, a few strands brushing the sides of his neck and closes his eyes completely. In his new found darkness he feels his heart slowing beat by beat until it feels like the tiny bird caged there in his chest pauses its trashing about with its wings aching and its heart despaired, defeated at last. And the voice of an angel sings in his ears and the darkness feels like it makes its way inside his veins like a serpent, making his limbs feel heavy and then Loki lifts his lashes only a little to look and there he is up there, resting in his own glass coffin, hands clasped on his chest, forehead pale, and just like Caruso he has no more voice inside him because it was taken away, snatched away from him so long ago and left him empty, easy to move around like a meaningless chess piece. 

Loki stares at his reflection-legs outstretched with one ankle resting on top of the other, tie lying flat on his chest, four vest buttons blinking in the light-and turns his head to the side, pushing the right earphone in deeper with his forefinger. And there's his reflection again, this time shimmering on the clear surface of the window-aquiline nose, upturned top lip, curling black lashes, and Loki pulls his legs closer, places one over the other and raises his eyes to the sky. Reflections everywhere he looks, showing more than just face and body and they make his stomach turn.

And there it is, 'Una Furtiva Lagrima', and it fills Loki's heart like all the rivers fill the oceans and he watches Los Angeles passing him by with his eyes half closed, the bright light making them look almost silver. 

The limousine takes its time, cruising slowly, and when it stops at all those red lights, the buildings form again, no more splotches of color but solid lines and steel and glass and they all seem vacant and like if you only stepped in, you'd get lost in their halls forever. And on the burning sidewalks dresses flutter in the wind and restless hands wipe sweat from necks and foreheads and colored lenses of sunglasses look like storms of stars. 

And there's a boy about eighteen, sitting shirtless on the top stair of some building and his hair is so black it looks almost blue and he's smoking and his knees peek through the rips in his jeans and his lashes are heavy and when the limousine passes him by he raises his gaze and their eyes meet. The boy parts his lips and the smoke that comes out looks like cursive letters, thick and grey and for a second it's Loki sitting there finishing the last cigarette from a pack he stole from a corner store when no one was looking and he has no idea where he's gonna spend the night-and it's the boy sitting there inside the sleek black limousine with his earphones on and his phone playing Caruso in the pocket of his two thousand dollar suit, and Loki raises his hand to touch the glass but the limousine moves on and the boy with his old building and that huge black door looming behind his shoulders disappear from sight. 

Loki tugs on his tie and leans his temple against the warm glass. He hits the replay button on 'Una Furtiva Lagrima' and loses track of time.

While the buildings make room for hills and sunlight, Loki thinks of Malachi. He drank all that brandy and devoured all the jam, yet he can eat all the jam he wants, it can never replace the bitterness inside his heart with sweetness and he can drink all the brandy he wants until he forgets what year it is but he'll never forget his own name and all the pain that's attached to it. The alcohol makes him wild and loud and he laughs and breaks things and trying to pin him down is like trying to catch a storm inside a bottle and he sneers and twists his body until they all think it's a game and it makes their hearts race, makes their blood boil. 

"I should know better," Malachi said to Loki with the afternoon sun beating down on their shoulders and the empty bottle of brandy lying on its side on the floor, "but I still have trust inside me. They treat me like shit but the next morning I wake up and think: maybe today it'll get better. People try to get it into your head that it's so easy to lose hope, like it's this thing you can actually lose like your keys or your phone, but it's not. It's like a street you run into everyday, wherever you are it's just waiting for you there around the corner. You can never lose a street. It has the sunlight on it or it's flooded with rain but it's always there. That's what hope is to me, and all the mind fuckery in the world can't make me change my mind. I'm getting sentimental on you, huh? I see the look you're giving me right now, but it's not this shitty brandy talking, it's just me trying to make you smile because I can't see you like this, you're breaking my fucking heart."

Malachi leaned back with his large shoulders pressing against the silver bars of the railing and touched the corner of Loki's mouth. 

Loki turned his face to him and watched those black eyes not letting any of that sunlight in, and raised his brows, "you want me to smile?"

And Malachi smirked, one corner of his mouth lifting, "yeah. C'mon, just a little bit. I never see you smile and it makes me wanna scream. You sit there in your silence and never let anyone in."

"There's nothing in me," Loki said and the wind moved his lashes and Malachi's lips parted and his eyes looked glassy in the light, "you walk in and you just fall forever."

Malachi pressed his forehead against Loki's temple and his breath felt sweet and hot on Loki's cheek, "maybe it's one of the good ones waiting there for you today. You know, they always talk about the good ones. They always talk about people that have hearts of gold inside them."

"All the money in the world can't buy a heart of gold," Loki said and his voice sounded tired.

Malachi licked his lips and his voice was warm when he said: "a heart of sunlight, then."

And he pulled back to look Loki in the eyes, "imagine how surprised you'd be when he'll find his way into your heart and all that light of his will chase all that darkness away and you'll see that the abyss you imagined there to be was just this immense field full of sunlight all along."

Where is Malachi now? Each time Loki watches him go he gets this feeling that he'll never see him again and this time was no different and as they get closer and closer to a giant mansion sleeping white between the hills, Loki prays that the night won't snatch Malachi away. 

He turns Caruso off but his voice, rich like wine, still echoes inside Loki's head while the soft shadows of the trees draw patterns of silence across his face. He takes the earphones out and slips them into his pocket. There's a single bump in the road-Loki doesn't feel it but the glasses rattle and both Loki and his reflection look out the window at the winding road leading to a pair of tall iron gates reaching for the sky. 

Somewhere in the skies he can see a bit of the moon but the daylight is still there and the skies are just starting to lose their color. The dying light sticking to the windows makes the glass glitter and the front doors leading into the mansion are black and next to each door there's an antique looking lantern, and the walls are dove white and the shutters black and it looks modern and fresh and quiet.

The limousine slows down and then stops. Loki watches the driver walking to the gates-one hand running through his platinum colored hair, the sleeves of his pants hugging his slim ankles. He presses a button before checking his phone and climbing back into the limousine. The gates open slowly and the car makes its way in and as Loki watches the mansion inching closer he can see all the houses of before, just buildings made of stone and bricks and glass, housing inside them eager pairs of hands craving the feeling of skin under their palms; expensive apartments balancing themselves among the stars high up in the sky overlooking the city, castles with halls that go on forever with forests surrounding them full of secrets, cottages soaking up the sea air, and mansions just like this one where the night has no boundaries and a bunch of men wearing suits and ties crowd around a staircase and watch a young man wrapping his fingers around the bars of the railing while a man pins him down on his stomach and pushes his shirt all the way up to the back of his neck.

The black doors open easy and it's like cracking a chocolate tablet in half. A man steps out-he's around sixty and his cheeks look hollow but he's still handsome, dressed in a black suit with his corn colored hair combed back, almond shaped eyes pale and clear and alert. 

The limousine stops and the man makes his way down the stairs and the young driver opens the door for Loki. He waits by the door, hair gently moving in the wind, eyes lost in some light thought, reserved only to those who have it the easy way, and the tall man in the inky black suit has really long legs and each stride is huge-he walks with his back straight like a column, face unpleasant, not smiling, and his shadow stretches on the ground like a piece of silky fabric and there are no wrinkles to be found anywhere on his suit or dress shirt. 

He turns his eyes to look at Loki and their movement is bird like and Loki gets out, running a palm over his tie to make sure it's not sticking out and pushes a strand of hair behind one ear.

As soon as he's out the driver takes one step backwards before turning on his heels and heading for the trunk and the man in the suit follows. And it feels good being out there because the air is warm and Loki watches his bag switching hands. The driver nods to the other and the man in the suit, most likely a staff member, tightens his grip around the bag's loose strap. The driver shuts the passenger door and gets behind the wheel.

The man in the suit looks Loki over-one swift look with those grave looking eyes before saying to him: "come with me."

Short and cold, and the man keeps a distance between them and Loki follows as the limousine drives off. The man's heels click on the paving stones and their rhythm is like the tick tock of a clock. And Loki watches his bag there in someone else's hands and thinks that this is it-in that bag there are all the things he owns in this world and all those things, all the stuff he left behind him back in the flat are not his and never will be. This is all he's got, a bag full of clothes and this book he got at some second hand store-that's his entire life in that bag and it's in someone else's hands and it's scary to think that other than that he has nothing, no things of his own, no nothing-even his body belongs to others, his soul sold to the highest bidder. 

The man never looks over his shoulder to see if Loki is still following him; he makes his way up the low marble stairs and his heels click and the air smells like flowers. The black doors stand there wide open and walking into this huge place is like walking into a museum where you can look at everything but you're not allowed to touch. 

And Loki looks at the back of the man's head and thinks what if it was the guy that hired him? What would sleeping with him feel like? And he looks at the man's hands and they're large and bony and unexpected. He looks like the kind of guy with the 'I say it, you do it and god help you if you don't' kinda attitude and Loki sees him as the kind of guy that has his way with you with your face pressed into the pillows and his pants still halfway on, then calls you down to have breakfast with him and talk politics as if nothing happened. 

But this isn't the one that hired him and Loki looks at everything in his way trying to gather enough information to form a guess. He hates surprises and has this tendency to always imagine the worst on purpose because if you imagine the worst thing possible, nothing can turn out to be more horrible than that. 

There are no photos anywhere, no human faces, only expensive furniture-this pleasant mix of light and dark textures everywhere, some older pieces with ones that look current. Loki spots white and cream colored sofas resting in the silence of a room far from where they are at the moment and a mirror in a bronze colored frame and a complicated yet elegant pattern of twists and turns on the carpet. 

"This way," the man says and leads Loki to a black staircase on the left. Loki takes one more look over his shoulder and with the image of that sitting room fresh in his head, tries to imagine all kinds of human forms sitting on those sofas and decide which one looks right. 

An old man , around seventy or so, with a goatee the color of snow, eyes so small they look like buttons, wearing a striped suit, fingers covered in rings? 

Loki follows the man up the stairs and tries another one.

A short man, around five foot four, with a small chin and large forehead, skin the color of ancient scrolls, dressed in a dusty rose suit, gaze direct, and soft spoken?

The man slides one palm up the railing, Loki's bag moving from side to side in his grip and looks up into the heart of the floor above them and his lashes are thin and golden.

A really tall one with a pencil neck, pointy ears, seriously lacking a sense of humor, dressed in a light brown suit with a caramel colored dress shirt underneath?

Loki keeps distance between them and as they approach the top of the stairs, tries again.

How about a spoiled rich kid that inherited all his dad's money-long face, dark hair combed to the side, dressed in a leather suit, thinking he's so clever with that smirk on his face?

Which one would Loki prefer to be the one touching him? Neither. When he was a kid he hated being touched and would recoil each and every single time. He used to wear long sleeved shirts so he wouldn't have to feel the sensation of someone else's skin touching his own. He'd make sure to keep a safe distance from people, in class, in shopping malls, down the street, always on the lookout for pairs of hands and their careless gestures and unpredictable movements. No place felt safe for him-there were bodies everywhere he looked and soon it wasn't just the feeling of someone else's hands touching him but other parts as well, like someone accidently brushing a shoulder against his while getting on the bus or someone waiting in front of him in line at the supermarket gently grazing the side of his rib with an elbow; these would send him into a panic and he'd start sweating and his heart would hum and thump inside his throat and he'd feel like leaving everything and just running away as fast and as far as he can. Only the feeling of his mother's soft palm running over his hair would feel right, and still, all those years later, having people touching him still makes him uncomfortable. 

One heel of the man's shoes makes a dull thumping sound as it connects with the surface of the top stair, and up there it feels cool and airy. Loki follows and the man reaches inside his suit's pocket for a set of keys. The keys are noisy like a heap of coins hitting the floor and they're all silver and thin and short. 

A little further ahead there's a mirror hanging on the wall to their left and resting before it is a table of brown and gold and a shiny vase full of pastel colored flowers sits on top of it. Fixed lighting high up there in the ceiling, each light looking like a diamond resting on top of an engagement ring. The tiles have a tint of mocha to them and the windows, large enough for you to walk through them are letting the fading daylight in. There's another floor-Loki sees a staircase spiraling upwards, the railing bars shaped like flowers, but the man leads him down a corridor and stops before a door, sleek and black, so smooth you can see your reflection in it. Loki turns away from it though, just like he turned away from the mirror.

The door unlocks with a 'click' and the man leads him in. There are two large windows in there so plenty of natural light and the curtains, pushed to the side and held in place by a golden clip are the color of rich burgundy. The bed has cream colored sheets and shiny bronze colored covers and the pillows leaning against the headboard look like assorted chocolates. There's a dresser with a mirror attached looking like a church window, a closet, a bedside table all dark and lighter brown, a carpet with a flower pattern clean and smelling nice and the parquet looks smooth and has a nice ring to it when Loki makes his way across it on his way to the center of the room. The over head lights are on, each one reflected on the sleek surface of the floor looking like pearls scattered everywhere. 

The man places Loki's bag at the foot of the bed and walks over to one of the windows to make sure a curtain is secured in place. Loki watches him readjusting the clip for a bit before letting his gaze wander. The man that hired his services gave Loki his own room. It's very quiet in there and it feels like that kind of quiet you feel uneasy to disturb because by doing so you feel like you've committed a most horrible crime. 

"You've already guessed, I assume," the man says, his back still facing Loki, "that this is to be your room for the following week. Feel free to organize your clothes in the closet the way you see fit. There are ten bathrooms scattered all over the house, all in full function, yet I assume it will prove easier for you to use the one closest to this room. It's right down the hall to your left."

Once the man is satisfied with the curtain, he turns around, looks at Loki briefly before pausing at the bedside table to move the little reading lamp to the right.

Loki moves the bracelet around his wrist, "so, do I just wait here, or-"

"You are under no obligation to stay in this room. You may travel around the house as you please. Mind you, some of the doors are locked and we would appreciate it if you would not try to force them open."

"Why would I-"

"My employer is expected to return in an hour or so," the man says, "I am to tell you that if you need anything you may come to me, ask for it, and I will provide it for you."

"How about freedom?" Loki asks and the man parts his lips and looks from one of Loki's eyes to the other, gaze intense, breaths calm and slow.

"This, I'm afraid, you must achieve on your own. I cannot provide it for you."

"How does one find a golden coin lost at night?" Loki says and the man gives him a slow smile and his eyes twinkle as if the two of them now share a secret.

"You wait for daylight and search for it then."

Loki nods and there's a need in him to thank him for his words but there's no need to do so because the man sees it in his eyes and nods once before leaving the key on a table and walking out.

Loki takes a few steps forward before sitting down on the floor, legs close to his body, and wraps his arms around them. His back is facing the door so he can see the entire room from where he's sitting at. Thin leather threads dangle from his wrist and Loki sits there and listens to the silence of the house. This floor is so high up you can't hear the staff moving about at the bottom of the stairs and Loki can't make up his mind, whether he misses the constant electric hum of the city or not. And from his spot on the floor he can see all the bedrooms he spent his days and nights in and all of them are crystal clear in his mind because unlike Malachi he's never drunk or high when he heads out to meet a client. And he wishes he could erase all of them from his memory at once, like a great wave sometimes rebels against mankind and crashes over a small island, swallowing all the little houses it can find. But a week from now, he'll be sitting on the floor of some other bedroom and thinking of this one and of all the others before it and he'll think: all those beds everywhere, yet they offer no rest, no safety, they never have and they never will. To these men, Loki's like an apparition, a swift sweet dream that fades away like dust in the wind when the first ray of sunlight touches it. He's like a traveler accumulating nights and scars, never resting, always in motion, but his own private darkness has no stars in it-he's the boy snatched from the field at night but there's no Celestial for him to guide him back to safety with his silver light. 

Loki gets up and walks to one of the windows. He can see the gates from here and they're sealed shut like a pair of lips holding on to a secret. The hills are covering themselves in shadows and the glass cools down beneath Loki's palm. 

He leaves the bag just as it is and heads to the bathroom right next to his room. There's a feeling of lightness to it, like the wing of a butterfly, and the ceiling is gold and there's a comfortable looking chair with a soft marshmallow like pillow on it, resting next to the tub. The floors there have more of a metallic color and the sink and faucets gleam bronze.

Loki pushes the bracelet up his arm before letting some water run over his hands. He runs them through his hair and the water cools the back of his neck. The sound of the running water echoes around and Loki turns off the faucet before leaning over close to the mirror. It's huge, almost takes the surface of the entire wall it's hanging from and he can see two windows reflected in it with a lantern in between glowing soft yellow.

He fogs up the mirror and writes a line from 'Una Furtiva Lagrima' with his fingertips over his reflection's face. 

'Si puo morir d'amour.'

One could die of love.

And he watches as the words slowly fade away, disappearing in the whites of his eyes. 

Loki shakes his hand and the bracelet slides back down to his wrist. 

The lights were on when he came in so he leaves them that way when he heads out and stops right there at the junction of all those corridors. All those closed doors call out to him but he raises his head and peeks up, hands grasping the railing, his entire upper body suspended in the air. The white lights are burning up there too, and Loki tucks a strand of hair behind his ear while making his way up the stairs. They're steep and they're making his ankles hurt and he looks over the railing and there's no one there at the bottom and he can feel all this air rushing over his face and thinks that it's only a matter of momentum, and then it's a free fall and it's the marble floor shattering his skull and snapping his ribs in half. 

But his legs carry him further up. More closed doors there on the last floor, but also two tall ones standing there open and Loki walks in and it's the library. Loki cranes his neck, with the ends of his hair brushing his shoulders and there's a mural ceiling up there and it's beautiful. Bright white lights surround it and the colors of the painted ceiling are dreamy-a huge space of blue purple skies and a gathering of angel forms, wings blazing gold in the lights. Two twin chandeliers move gently above his head and there's an inner staircase leading to the upper part of the library and the walls and the bookshelves are the lazy color of blushing brandy and Loki makes his way up.

It smells like flowers in there too, and the air is so clean and on the landing Loki finds a reading table with a chessboard on it. The mural depicts the fall of an angel and it's frightening but also beautiful at the same time and Loki sits on the railing, puts his earphones back on and hits play on another beautiful piece sung by Caruso 'Nessun Dorma' and the angels flapping their mighty wings come to life before his eyes. And there's the story of a prince who falls in love with a cold hearted princess in his ears and the music sweeps him so far away he can't feel time passing, and can't hear the footsteps coming up the stairs when everything has turned dark outside. 

He's sitting there with his black tie tucked underneath his vest and the heels of his shoes hovering just an inch above the floor and it's only because he's not letting his legs all the way down because he likes this feeling of being suspended in the air. His eyes are open, traveling across the spines of the books, awake and alert but also daydreaming. And he likes the feeling of slipping one of his feet between two metal bars and twisting his ankle around them from behind, and the wires of his earphones zig zag across his chest like black streams. 

And with all that light everywhere it's easy to spot movement and Loki catches a shadow from the corner of his eye and it makes him jump. The sudden violent movement costs him his balance and his chest becomes a void when he falls backwards.

"Ah!"

He kicks out and his ankle loses its grip on the railing and all that weight of his shoulders and spine makes him sink like a stone. And there's the air rushing over his face and in that split second it feels like the library floor waiting there for him following his eighteen feet drop won't be his final stop and he'll just keep on falling, deep into the depths of the earth. 

And then, a sharp pain in his shoulder-his arm is stretched all the way up and someone is holding him by the wrist. Loki catches a glimpse of the concerned faces of the angels looming above him on the ceiling before there's a blur of colors as he's pulled back to safety. And there, his heels finally meet the floor and his heart goes like crazy in his chest and he's sitting there on the railing with his earphones still on looking at the man who has just snatched him from the jaws of death and will definitely have to pay the price for it. 

Loki takes his earphones out and they feel warm in his palm and the man's strong fingers are still closed around his left wrist. He's breathing fast and harsh and his eyes are dead serious and alarmed and Loki was wrong-he looks nothing like all those guys he's imagined. He's so close to him that Loki can feel his body heat and his lashes are gold and his eyes are blue and his mouth is wide and soft and he smells so sweet. 

Loki looks at the hand still holding on to his and the man probably sees something in his eyes because he releases Loki's wrist and Loki quickly pulls his own hand back as if he'd been burned. 

And Loki has no idea why he says this but he does and it makes the man stare, "sometimes it's better to let a bird fly than hold it down."

The man blinks and his eyes run over Loki's face and a wrinkle appears there between his brows, "why do you say that? Did you want this to happen?"

"It's not about wanting it or not," Loki says and shrugs, "it's things that happen because they're supposed to happen. It's just what's natural."

There's something in the man's eyes-what is it? Recognition? Understanding? Loki watches that look in those eyes and can't figure it out. 

After a few seconds of silence the man asks him: "what's your name?"

Augustine hadn't even told this man his name and the thought feels heavy inside his chest.

"Loki," he says quietly.

"Loki," the man says, "I'm the one that hired you. My name is Thor. Come with me, there are things we need to discuss."


	3. Chapter 3

Thor leads the way and Loki follows. Loki always keeps his distance, walking a few steps behind, and it's like following a river, you never know where it will lead you to-the boat will rock and sway and the dense shadows of the branches high up above you will leave weeping black lashes across your cheeks and the white sunlight will turn your eyes to diamonds and what is waiting there at the end of your journey? A field of wheat so yellow it looks like an ocean of gold, or a roaring waterfall with its hellish dark waters, promising only an endless fall, like falling from heaven itself? 

Loki looks at Thor's shoes-the leather is so black it looks like molten tar-and Loki matches his steps to his, left foot then right, and their shoes reflect the lights and Loki raises his eyes to the back of Thor's head. The skin is tan and there are shades of stardust and burning planets in his hair, sunflowers and honey, and as they pass by a mirror Thor keeps on walking but his reflection lingers and he's close to the glass, his face tilted, long fingers combing through his hair and securing it in a ponytail, white dress shirt unbuttoned, shadows zigzagging across his skin and pressing themselves to his clavicles. And as Loki passes it by, he slides his palm over the mirror and it's cold and sleek under his hand and the brush of his fingers over it makes the reflection disappear like it was just made of smoke all along. 

Loki peeks over the railing and there's the man with his corn colored hair and his tailored suit, looking up at him; their eyes meet for a second before the man turns on his heels and vanishes from sight. 

Huge doors the color of nougat, the knobs golden, are waiting there open for them; it's Thor's office and there's an inner staircase there too spiraling around itself like dripping honey, leading to a sitting area where the walls are lined with countless bookshelves dreaming in the coppery light. Loki looks up, eyes following the curtains making their way down from high above to brush the floor like rays of sunlight hitting at a noon angle. There's a table there with a tray on it; two glasses stand on its silver surface along with a pitcher full of water and Loki knows it's there for him. Two leather chairs are facing the table; there's a window to the right and one behind the table and a beige carpet depicting scenes from ancient times. 

Thor walks over to the table, he's tall and confident and Loki watches him filling a glass with water; the sound is cool and fresh and Loki licks his lips. Thor sets the pitcher back on the tray and walks over to Loki with one hand in his pocket, the half full glass in the other. 

"Here," Thor says and hands him the glass.

"Thank you," Loki says and takes it from him without their fingers touching. 

Thor smiles a bit and now both hands are in his pockets and he looks at Loki and follows his gaze.

"You like it," he says and Loki stills the hand bringing the glass to his lips and lets his eyes wander over the designs on the carpet before taking a sip.

"The tale of Persephone and Hades," Loki says with his mouth still pressed to the rim of the glass, and there they are, lying there at their feet, the mighty gates of the underworld shaped like bony fingers holding rose stems; and Persephone there on the right corner holding her small hands with their small fingers against her heart, face turned to the side, full lips parted in a sigh, hair dancing in the warm spring wind and her hair is a field of wild flowers; and on the left Hades, his face merely a shadow, reaching out to her and the mighty palm of his hand takes the rabid form of a horse galloping faster than a shooting star-eyes mad, mouth foaming and bloody-and there between them an endless chasm, cold and hollow and full of whispers and Loki blinks when he feels Thor moving closer.

Thor's scent fills his nostrils and floods his lungs with warmth; he smells like summer and infinity, such a sweet rich smell it makes Loki's lids feel heavy. He can hear Thor breathing and it's as quiet as the night sleeping like a cat out there behind the glass and it's as quiet as this room that's all walls and ceiling and books; and the slow steady rhythm of it is hypnotic and Loki listens to it as Thor stops to stand next to him.

"It was a gift," Thor says, "my dad, he likes this stuff. I bet at least a fourth of all the books back there in the library are all history and ancient mythology. He has at least two copies of each book and he keeps some here because every shelf back at his place is full. He reads them all and if you ask him about this little thing on page two hundred and one he'll tell you all about it. He used to teach American History in college. He found this carpet in Morocco I think. Didn't even tell me about it, just had it delivered to my house one morning and he sent this note with it but the note didn't say anything, it just had this pomegranate seed taped to it and believe me, I've been scratching my head ever since. I tried asking him about it but he just gives me one of his old fox looks and tells me it's time I get deals and contracts out of my head and bring some beauty and life lessons into it. He wants me to read the myths and I keep telling him 'nah', but the pomegranate is killing me."

"Curious?" Loki asks and takes another sip.

"Can't sleep at night," Thor says and sends Loki a lopsided smile.

Loki lowers the glass a bit. He looks at the horse through it and the water swaying from side to side forming silent waves makes it move and its mane looks like tree branches flailing in some unforgiving wind and it's galloping with such force it makes the carriage shake and groan and Loki takes a breath and here they are, four horses black as midnight, pulling a carriage through a field of ruby colored flowers, the wild rush of air escaping from their nostrils making the trees moan and bend. 

"This is the tale of Persephone," Loki says and next to him Thor bends his head to listen, "a beautiful girl she was, the golden haired daughter of Demeter and Zeus. It is said that she was so beautiful that all had fallen in love with her. The streams would gift her with the sweetest of waters, the trees with the reddest of apples and the sun would, from time to time, appear at night so it could see its rays turn her long lashes shimmering gold. All the beings of light found her beautiful, yet all the being of darkness found her beautiful too-the stars would appear early to delight her with their silvery light, the shadows would enjoy resting there at the corners of her mouth while she lay dreaming in her bed , and Hades himself, the horrible king of the underworld, would follow her willowy form through the forests and the fields, disguised as a shadow, and would adore her beauty while she would sit by the lake, his entire form her pale reflection quivering on the waters."

"Unable to convince his brother Zeus to allow her to descend into the underworld as his bride, for Demeter would not allow it for she thought him unsuitable for her daughter, too dangerous and wild for this sweet girl who has never felt the touch of a man, Hades decided he would take her by force. Four horses he took with him; one was named 'Time', the second 'Memory', the third 'Journey' and the fourth 'Sleep'. In broad daylight an endless chasm appeared, causing entire lands to shake and shiver; and out of the ground they came rushing, four horses with monstrous ribcages, swift as passing shadows and the madly spinning wheels of the carriage left long cracks in the earth, six feet deep. The flowers, feeling the presence of death coming near them like the cold that always arrives before the night touches all, began to wither away and die, and the wind scattered to all corners of the earth and the light of the sun turned grey and none could warn the beautiful girl sitting on her knees in the heart of the field, picking flowers to put in her hair. She could only see a shadow moving rapidly her way before she was snatched off the ground by Hades, who had plucked her from the earth like the flower she was, with his ashen hands. Hades turned the carriage around and down it went, deep into the open mouth of the chasm and the darkness admired the rich red color of the stain spreading across the front of Persephone's white dress."

"Demeter searched for Persephone for nine days, stricken with grief, never stopping for food or drink or rest and as dry as her lips were from not having any water to drink, so were the lands-no rains fell during those nine long days, the rivers stopped flowing and the fruits stopped growing and Zeus asked his brother to release the girl so that the people would not starve and the lands would not die and Hades agreed. Persephone had not taken any food or drink since her arrival for she was too saddened to eat and so before allowing her to exit the gates of his cold kingdom, Hades offered her a single pomegranate seed. It lay there in the palm of his hand like a drop of blood, and confused by hunger and delirious happiness that she's about to be set free and see the sunlight once more, Persephone accepted it and brought it to her mouth and crushed it between her teeth and it tasted as sweet as sin on her tongue and Hades smiled for young Persephone did not know that one must never accept any food or drink being offered in this kingdom of smoke and shadow for once one has tasted darkness he's forever bound to it and is, from that moment on, a creature of both light and darkness and can be summoned by Hades at any given time."

"Eight months to be spent in the light of the sun for Persephone, and four underground in the arms of Hades, and during these four months the earth is to be covered in snow and nothing is to grow or bloom for Demeter will grieve for her daughter then."

"Winter," Thor says and his deep voice, so close, makes Loki see the room again with its golden curtains and black leather chairs, slowly gaining form, coming back to focus.

"Winter," Loki agrees and when he turns his head to look at Thor he sees those eyes looking lost and surprised and delighted.

"A storyteller," Thor says and his smile is soft.

"It's not mine," Loki says, "the tale, I mean. I'm not the one who invented it."

"Doesn't matter," Thor says, "I could see the wheels turning in your head-you were making it your own."

"I love this one the best," Loki says and turns quiet.

He feels like he did too much talking, he feels like a house that has spent years collecting dust and memories and Thor is the wind-he kept pushing the door gently until it gave way and for a moment Thor could, if he wanted to, glimpse into his heart and see all the shadows sticking to the arteries. But now Loki slams the door shut and all his secrets, glittering in the darkness like cold pieces of metal, remain untouched and that's what feels right to him and all his words about how his mother used to read to him from this little book of myths that seemed enchanted to him at the time, just fade away like smoke on his tongue and he feels Thor's gaze moving over his face, wondering, guessing.

"So why do you think my dad did it?" Thor asks, "the pomegranate thing?"

And Loki sees a man with white hair, sitting in a fancy hotel room, tearing a piece of tape-the one you can see through-with his teeth and using it to pin a single Mars colored pomegranate seed to a blank piece of paper, a mischievous glint dancing in his tired eyes.

"Maybe he was hoping that once you find the tale that goes along with it you'd read it and think it's beautiful and you'd end up like Persephone, she a prisoner of darkness, you a prisoner of wanting to read more and never wanting to stop," Loki says.

And Thor looks at him like he's trying to figure him out but feels like no matter how hard he tries he won't be able to do it and then there's a knock on the door and the older man walks in and his eyes are soft and polite.

Thor turns to him and his voice is light, "what is it?"

"It's nine o'clock, sir," the man says, "staying in or going out?"

"Going out."

"Very well, sir," the man says, "should I take the tray?"

Thor turns to Loki, "more water?"

"No," Loki says and the glass suddenly feels very heavy in his hand, "no thank you."

And he walks over to the table and puts the glass on the tray and the man picks the tray up and heads out and Loki listens to the sound of the glasses clinking on the smooth surface and it gets fainter and fainter until it's gone completely.

"We leave in twenty," Thor says and gets behind his desk, "your story messed with my mind, just so you know. I didn't even notice it's getting late."

Thor sticks his hands in his pockets and looks Loki straight in the eye, "he was wrong, though."

"Who?"

"That guy. Augustine."

Loki wants to ask why, but instead he only raises his chin.

"He said there's magic in your eyes," Thor says, "but he was wrong. It's not just in your eyes, it's in your heart too."

And he smiles and says to Loki: "be ready to go in twenty. It's a great restaurant. Wait for me in the car. We can discuss the details of this whole thing over dinner."

Loki looks at Thor-he took out some documents from one of the drawers and now he's spreading them across the table like they're cards, long tan fingers pushing some pages away and pulling others closer. The cap of his expensive silver pen lies there between the pages like a fallen tower and Thor studies one document, writes something at the bottom of it then grabs the pen between his teeth and moves on to the next one, pen moving from fingers to lips and back to fingers and Loki watches the shadows making his lashes darker and there's a flash of silver around Thor's neck-it's a thin chain and it's sleeping beneath the collar of his dress shirt-and there's a line of black ink running along the inside of his arm, from wrist all the way up to the elbow area but Thor's standing too far from him and Loki can't read what it says.

And Loki sticks his hands in his pockets and heads out to the hall. The stars follow him down the stairs and now that it's dark the house seems even quieter and it feels like there's no one in it, only him and the reflections of previous seasons, disappearing and reappearing in windows and mirrors and in glasses, making it possible for summer and fall and spring and winter to exist all at the same time, in the same place, and fill the halls with flowers made of frost and leaves made of heat and raindrops the color of lilies and wind made of sunflowers looking like the tail of a kite.

The door to his room is open and it's cold when he walks in. There's all this air in there and all this space it gives him that feeling you get sometimes, that tug you feel inside you when you stare at an open space and it makes you feel lost.

The lights are humming and there's his bag there on the bed, untouched, and Loki changes into a black suit; it's one of Augustine's rules;if you stay with a client for more than a few hours, if you're gonna spend a couple of days with them, you get out of your 'on the road' clothes and change into something that doesn't smell like streets and smoke, it shows the client you've got class and you want to make a good impression, and if you think good of the boys you think good of their daddy too and if you shame yourself you're in trouble cause you shame daddy too and if there's one thing Augustine hates more than anything else it's to be made a mockery of.

Black dress shirt and suit jacket, silver cufflinks and black pants. The bracelet stays.

There's the Windsor knot and he's done it so many times before he doesn't even need to look in the mirror; he crosses the wide end over the narrow end, brings the wide end up through the loop and the matte black tie slips like a snake through his fingers. He raises his chin and the collar brushes his jaw and cheeks and his fingers loop the wide end over the narrow end and he sees the cover of the only book he's brought with him peeking from inside the bag and there's a road there leading into the heart of the Mojave Desert and a yellow car almost gone from sight and a soft white sprinkle of dust looking like a million dots of light hovering above the ground and the sky looks so blue it hurts.

Loki tightens the knot, centers it and turns the collar down. He picks up the black suit jacket lying there on the bed, slips one arm in and the fabric hisses and Loki reaches for the book with his other hand.

He slips the book between his teeth while he buttons up and when he's done he sits down on the edge of the bed and flips through it; the pages are as thin as rice paper and they crackle when he touches them and they move to the beat of his heart. He cracks the spine and the book groans and now the first words of each sentence become visible and Loki presses a fingertip to the page and uses it to follow the lines of the first paragraph of the very first chapter and reads aloud, his voice soft and quiet and the room listens: "like him, the desert is also blind. It has no eyes and, especially at night, when all is quiet and cold and the dunes sleep bluish and silky, it is overcome by a loneliness so profound it makes it regret not being able to shed any tears, for by crying the sorrow lifts a little and the heart feels lighter, if only for a while. The night seems endless and the promise of day pale, and the desert misses its friends the birds that keep it company during the hot exhausting hours of the day. They arrive at sunrise with their great wings that flap and caress the sands with their swift surges of wind, and leave when the great shadows arrive to cool the sands and hush the winds. The birds never promise to return the next day, and in its eternal darkness the desert only has its trust in them and it's burning like a flame, tall and wild, and each day before the sun bursts from the earth to paint the sands vibrant gold, the desert turns quiet and still and waits for that sweet feeling of the shifting of its sands, for the feeling of their claws moving about leaving prints in the sand soon to be erased by the morning wind, for the feeling of their weight and the feeling of their wings caressing its sands with large soft strokes. And it likes to think that it's its trust in its friends that keeps bringing them back, as if by magic, and maybe there's some truth to it and maybe it's true for him as well, maybe this trust he still has inside him will send something good his way someday, something that would show him that not all those who wander in the darkness are lost."

Loki closes the book and puts it in the bag and a red tie falls over the glossy cover and Loki zips it up, puts it in the closet where the shadows are cool and feel like silk, and closes the door.

He walks out and turns around to look; with his bag out of sight the room looks just as it did when he first saw it, he even ran a palm over the bedcovers to smooth out the wrinkles the weight of his bag left behind and there's no trace of him anywhere, no books on the nightstand, not a single pair of shoes next to the bed, nothing, and he thinks how easy it is for people to forget us and replace us with others.

Loki shuts the door and looks up. Thor's office is up there; is he still there making corrections with his pen and signing stuff, or is he in some other room, getting ready to go out? Loki blinks and looks around. Doors everywhere he looks, all shut and it's so quiet there he can hear his own heart beating underneath the black silk. Nothing moves, just the air, a very gentle, almost unnoticeable draft sneaking over his shoulders from far behind and Loki tightens the bracelet around his wrist as he lets his gaze wander to the end of the hall; there's a window there and Loki can see the stars. He tugs on one of the leather straps with his teeth before he turns around and makes his way down the stairs. 

A member of the staff waits for him by the door and when Loki gets close enough he opens it and stands back. He has very fine blond hair and his eyes are black and tiny and he's one of those people that can never look you in the eye.

"Thank you," Loki says very quietly and bows his head as he steps outside. A black wind brushes his cheeks, it's slow and gentle and it smells like jasmine and the sky is so clear and there's a young moon up there standing all alone in all that darkness and its light paints the hushed gardens silver.

Loki closes his eyes for a moment and it's just his body there with the wind pushing against it and there's this feeling of timelessness to everything; he could be standing in the middle of a roman road leading into the depths of a sleeping city conjuring up stars from its dreams, or standing outside an old mansion with his top hat and gloves waiting for him on a grey stair, his horse ready for the long ride over to see some relatives who've been asking for him, ending each letter with an invitation. And there's all this open space everywhere, he can feel it because freedom is like air and it's all around him and it's this feeling like every road just goes on forever and the skies are limitless and he breathes all that in, he fills his chest with infinity and eternity like one would fill its heart with a beautiful piece of music and for those moments, he is free. 

He listens and the wind rustles young leaves in the gardens and it sounds like silent waves and the cicadas sing in the shadows and Loki spreads a palm over his chest so the breeze won't steal his tie and he stands there with his eyes closed and his face turned to the moon until he hears the car. It's not the same one that brought him here and this time the driver is a middle aged man that greets Loki with a "good evening, sir" and holds the door open for him.

"Good evening," Loki replies and walks over and the bearded man fills his lungs with the sweetness of jasmine and looks at the skies and says: "beautiful night, I say. My favorite time of the day. You live in the city you look up, you never see the sky like this. There's Spica, right there."

The driver squints and he's all crow's feet and laugh lines and he points and the fabric of his suit lets out a soft whisper and Loki raises his eyes to look.

The driver looks at him, then back at the sky again."You see it? 

Loki points, "this one?"

"You've got a good eye. Most people miss it the first time. My poor wife, it took her two weeks to spot it. She got annoyed and I got frustrated, but she got it in the end and once she gets something stuck in her head, it stays there forever, bless her. She's still pointing it out to me, twenty three years later. You know what Spica means?"

"No. What?"

"Ear of wheat. There's a young lady up there at that very spot, holding wheat in her hands. If you look hard enough you can see her hair moving in the wind. They say it's made of golden stardust."

Loki sticks his hands in his pockets, "the constellation of Virgo?"

"That's the one. You know your stars, sir?"

"Not really," Loki says and licks his lips and the longer he keeps his eyes on that same bright spot in the sky, the longer it tugs at his heart and there's her hair the color of caramel collecting stars on its strands, stringing them like pearls and Loki feels the touch of her palm on his cheek and it's so warm and real he wants to lean his face against it and close his eyes, "it's my mother. She loved the stars."

"Did she now?" the driver smiles at him, "it's mostly a female thing, I guess. Women like it, and soft hearted guys like myself. Does she have a favorite one?"

"She did," Loki says, "Regulus. The prince."

"Beautiful star."

"They're all beautiful," Loki says quietly and the driver smiles, still caught in fantasies, beard silver like the moonlight, and Loki gets in the car.

The driver closes the door and smokes out there for a bit just looking at the stars and Loki puts on his earphones and hits play on 'E Lucevan Le Stelle' and the wind moves the moon across the sky and the flute is gentle and shy and the tenor makes his heart soar.

Thor walks out and he's wearing blue and the ends of his hair are brushing his shoulders, no ponytail this time, and his hair has the colors of sunrise and noon and sunset in it and he greets the driver with a nod and a beautiful smile. They talk for a few moments and the driver nods once and opens the door for him and Thor gets in. The blue fabric of his suit has a lovely sheen to it and the light blue tie looks silky and smooth. He has no vest on, just a white dress shirt and his hair smells like a field of spring flowers and his eyes are soft. 

Loki turns his phone off and puts the earphones back in his pocket.

Thor watches Loki's fingers moving underneath the fabric and says: "same song?

Loki looks at him, "I'm sorry?"

"Is it the same song, like the one you were listening to earlier on the railing?"

"No, it's a different one," Loki says.

"What's it called?"

"E Lucevan Le Stelle."

"Ah. And the one from before?"

"Nessun Dorma."

"Interesting. Spanish?"

"No. Italian."

The driver gets in and the car comes to life and Thor leans back in his seat and he's looking at Loki and his eyes are curious.

"So, if you translate it into English-"

And Loki looks from one of Thor's eyes to the other and it really looks like he's interested and it feels weird talking about it because both these arias feel like a part of him and talking about them feels to him to like talking about something personal and no one ever cared about what he's listening to before.

"Uh-" Loki licks his lips, "the first one-"

"The Stelle one?"

"Yes. It's 'and the stars were shining'. The second one translates to 'none shall sleep'. Both arias."

"From the same opera?"

"No. The first one is from 'Tosca' and the second one is from 'Turandot'."

Thor smiles and looks a bit lost, "I don't know anything about opera."

"Giacomo Puccini composed the both of them," Loki says and Thor tucks a strand of hair behind one ear.

"The first one, the one with the stars. What's it about?"

The car passes through the gates and the hills are sleeping, the trees long and slim silhouettes against the skies painted with moonlight.

"It tells the story of a painter," Loki says and Thor's gaze touches his lips, "he's about to be executed and he's writing this letter to this woman he loves. Her name is Tosca and she's a singer and he loves her very much."

Thor blinks, "the opera is named after her."

"It is."

"So the guy dies at the end?"

"He does, actually," Loki says, "they both do. He's shot dead and she kills herself. Jumps off the roof."

"Because she can't live without him," Thor says and when Loki nods he adds, "how do you know about this stuff? The whole opera thing, I mean. No one listens to these things anymore."

Loki shrugs. He doesn't want to say anything but he sees his old home and it's summer and all the windows are open and all those beautiful tenor voices rush out and they're like wild passionate winds moving the treetops and reaching for the sun. 

And Loki feels Thor's eyes on him, patiently looking, searching for these words Loki won't say. And Loki turns his face to him and there they are, Augustine's fingers closing around the back of his neck and Loki parts his lips, exposes his long pale neck and runs a golden strand of Thor's hair between his fingers.

"Is this what you hired me for?" Loki says and his eyes are half closed, the lids heavy, "to talk about opera?"

Something changes in Thor's eyes; it's like he's seeing Loki for the first time and can't quite figure him out. Thor's gaze lingers on Loki's mouth-the lips are thin and red- and Thor moves his gaze to Loki's fingers; they let go of the strand of hair and flutter over the collar of Thor's shirt almost without touching the fabric.

Thor lowers his eyes and Loki pulls his hand back.

"We'll talk about this when we get there," Thor says.

Loki's fingers feel cold and he places his hands in his lap and curls them into loose fists, pale knuckles moving under paper thin skin. Small, sharp surges of adrenaline that feel like electric shocks run from his heart down his wrists, turn his fingers to ice then race back up again only to return a few moments later, heart racing in chest like the wings of a hummingbird, so fast it makes him feel lightheaded. 

Loki takes a deep breath and turns his face to the window; out there the hills are covered in shadows as thick as honey and the trees change shape like light trails of smoke and Loki closes his eyes for a second and this always happens to him, the anxiety, the fear, and no matter how many hands have touched him throughout the years, he can never get used to this, he can never get himself to calm down and he never wants any of them to see this because if he looks indifferent they don't care and leave him alone but if they spot fear they hurt him.

Loki licks his lips because they feel so dry all of a sudden, it feels like they're about to crack, and watches the darkness moving outside the window; it moves with the ease and elegance of a scarf falling from a woman's shoulders and for the rest of the way Thor remains silent.

Loki can see the light burning from afar, the restaurant nestled between the hills looking like a firefly in all the darkness that's surrounding it and the lights look soft and blurred and seem to vibrate gently and Loki doesn't feel like eating at all even though he hasn't eaten anything all day. 

Next to him Thor runs one hand over his tie to make sure it's smooth and still in place and Loki looks at Thor's hands. These hands will touch him tonight, and Loki looks at them and tries to see if they are capable of cruelty and humiliation. It's something you can feel just by observing but nothing's ever certain and Loki watches those long strong fingers adjusting the knot and Thor looks at him and says: "we'll be there in a bit."

"I see it," Loki says and Thor turns to look out the window.

"It's my dad's favorite restaurant," Thor says, "it's really beautiful here in the afternoons. You can have a drink outside and there's this view, just everything blooming. You don't get that In the city, there you look out the window and all you see is grey."

Thor buttons his suit jacket and looks at Loki.

"So why a painter and a singer?" he asks.

It takes Loki a few moments to answer that, "I-I don't know, actually."

"No guesses?"

Loki sits up straight and lets his gaze wander across the night sky, "I-singing is…it's a voice. Voice is breath. Breath is life, it's the real thing, it's reality. Painting is color, it's meaning in brush strokes, it's an interpretation."

Loki exhales sharply and shakes his head, "I don't know. Reality and a dream, maybe? What do you think?"

Thor looks at him and gets lost in Loki's eyes, "so, they kill him, right? They kill the dream, they kill the fantasy."

"And reality can't cope," Loki says, "because there's none without the other. Dreams can't exist if reality doesn't exist and reality, real life, falls apart and people can't cope without their dreams. You take a dream from someone, you take hope away too, and people can't live without hope. They die."

The car slows down and a beautiful golden light washes over Thor's face and Loki feels the heat of the lights on the back of his neck and the car stops and there's the driver holding the door open for them, peeking at Spica from time to time, his eyes soft and dreaming. 

Out there it's a bit chilly and quiet and the starlight makes the trees look like they're covered in frost. Thor tells the driver to wait for them and the bearded man closes the doors, puts the keys in his pocket and sits on a bench with his cigarettes and his dreams, content that he can enjoy the beauty of the night sky for an hour or two.

"Loki."

Thor says his name and the way he says it is soft and when Loki looks at him Thor motions him over. Loki follows and they climb up the stairs and Loki tries to walk a few feet behind him but they always end up walking side by side.

Inside there are sleek black pillars and a cream colored floor; it's a huge open space and lit lanterns are hanging from the ceiling and the orange lights trapped inside them behind the black lace-like pattern look like wild butterflies. All the tables are covered with a snow-white tablecloth soft and airy and in the centre of each table rests a thin branch of an almond tree in a crystal vase, its blossoms a magnificent vibrant pink. There are arches everywhere and black sofas in the corners with a table in the middle and a bar dreaming in the soothing lights. 

A silver haired headwaiter spots Thor, smiles politely at a seated customer and hurries over to them.

"Sir, it's a pleasure seeing you again," he says and gives a little bow and Thor smiles and a dimple appears at the corner of his mouth.

"It's a pleasure to be here," Thor says and the headwaiter nods in Loki's direction, keeping both hands clasped behind his back.

"We have your table ready," the headwaiter says, "follow me, please. May I ask if your father is well? It's been a while since we've seen him. We haven't crossed the special tomato soup off our menu, just in case he decides to pay us a visit."

Thor motions Loki over and Loki sticks his hands in his pockets and follows Thor's perfectly tailored blue suit.

"He's traveling," Thor says to the headwaiter, "he says it's on business but we know him better, you and I, right?"

"Where is he at the moment, sir, if I may ask?

"Spain," Thor says.

The headwaiter stops to let them catch up with him, "ah, Spain! Beautiful in the summertime."

"Beautiful all year round," Thor says and when the headwaiter turns on his heels and keeps leading the way, Thor looks at Loki and asks; "have you ever been to Spain?"

"No," Loki says softly and Thor looks at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Would you like to go?"

They arrive at their table and Loki keeps his reply to himself.

Thor sits down, Loki follows and the headwaiter asks Thor: "is everything alright?"

"It's perfect, thank you," Thor says and reaches for the menu.

"Very well. What wine will you be having, sir?"

"Surprise me," Thor says and the headwaiter smiles a little.

"Very well, sir. How about your father's favorite? Very gentle and very sweet, perfect for summer."

"Sounds perfect," Thor says, "Loki?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Loki says and the headwaiter gives a polite nod and leaves, his steps light and swift. 

Thor gets closer to the table and looks the menu over, "red wine's his favorite. He'd always have some with dinner. He used to say that it's all a man really needs in life-the taste of wine on his tongue and all the tales of the world in his mind. The wine gets to his head pretty quick and he starts telling all kinds of stories, each time a different one. He says they're all true, but I never believe him. He saw some stuff when he was younger, before I was born but those stories he tells, they feel like they're from a different time, you know? So I always pull a face and he gives me that look. He hates it."

With the menu in his hands he looks at Loki, "what about your dad? Is he crazy like mine?"

"I don't know," Loki says, eyes lowered, moving over the names of the courses printed in black, "I've never met him."

Thor plays with the menu between his fingers and it reflects the light, "sorry."

"It's alright, you didn't know," Loki says and feels those blue eyes caressing his face, trying to analyze every blink, every movement of the mouth. 

"So, it was just you and your mom?" Thor asks and then adds, "was she the one who made you love all this opera stuff?"

"Caruso was her favorite," Loki says and spots the headwaiter coming over with their wine.

Thor looks over his shoulder and the polite grey haired man greets both with a smile and shows Thor the bottle; the glass is dark and thick and looks heavy in the headwaiter's hands. Loki hears the wine moving inside the bottle and it sounds like a burgundy piece of music. It's Cabernet Sauvignon and it's about two thousand dollars for that bottle and once Thor nods to say it's alright, the headwaiter opens the bottle and starts filling Thor's glass. Thor stops him when it's half full.

"That's enough for me, thanks," he says and the headwaiter pours the same amount in Loki's glass. The light catches in the glass and the wine flows like some accursed river, red and foaming and untamed and once he's done, the headwaiter places the bottle on the table and waits to take their orders. Thor asks for a steak.

"I'll have the same," Loki says and it's only because he doesn't feel like looking at the menu anymore and as soon as the headwaiter is gone he places it on the far end of the table, content that he won't have to look at it again.

Loki leans back in his chair and touches the pink blossoms with his fingertips. The marshmallow colored petals are soft and cool to the touch and it feels like touching whipped cream. The lines catch stray shadows in them and the rolled up leaves look like tiny ice cream cones. The crystal vase is clear and Loki can see the broken end of the branch resting there silent in the water and the snapping sound echoes in his ears.

"The almond tree," Loki says, "it has a meaning. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"You wait and you get bad things, you wait and you get good things, you never really know."

And Loki raises his eyes to Thor and his fingers stop in mid caress, "why did you ask for me?"

Thor leans back and takes the wine glass with him. He swirls the wine in the glass a few times before he puts it back on the table without trying it at all. He pushes the glass away and looks at Loki and his eyes are sad and there's this weird feeling inside Loki all of a sudden, he feels like he'd seen these eyes before, and he studies the long golden lashes, the darker shades of blue around the pupils, the pale pink lids, the faint traces of crow's feet at their corners and tries to bring a memory back but all he gets is a blurred image of a crowd of people and that's it.

Thor isn't smiling, he's lost in some thought, in some image, and Loki feels like Thor's eyes hold all the sadness of the world in them and for a moment he feels like he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to see.

But then Thor looks down and when he looks back up again his gaze has less of a weight to it.

"I needed the company," Thor says, "I didn’t feel like being alone."

"Why a week?" Loki asks and Thor shrugs.

"Why not?"

Loki smiles and looks down. Thor crosses his arms over his chest and Loki feels him looking at him.

"I know what you're thinking," Thor says and Loki keeps his eyes down, smile now long gone.

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I do. You think I just buy everything I want. I see something and I have to have it. I see a two thousand dollars bottle of wine that I want, I buy it. I see a car and I buy it cause I have to have it. I buy these things because I can afford them and I think to myself: hey, if I can buy stuff, I can buy people too, right? I know that's what you're thinking."

And Loki raises his eyes and says quietly: "what does it matter what I think? You wanted me here. You paid for me to be here with you. I'm here now. You paid for me and I'm yours for a week and you can do anything you want with me. You have your house and you have your stuff and you have me, I'm just one of the things you own. But I'm just a borrowed thing, you have to give me back when the week ends and let someone else use me for a while. We think we own everything but nothing's really ours, we give our houses back and our lands and our jobs go to other people and our bodies we only borrow them for a while too, then we have to give them back because the earth needs them more than we do."

And Thor blinks and it looks like his heart was a tall building and it just crumbled and all that's left of it is dust floating in the air.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, his voice so quiet Loki can barely hear him.

"Like what?" Loki asks and presses his lips to a thin line.

Thor's lips part but he says nothing. Two waiters arrive with their food and Loki forces himself to eat; the beef is soft and seasoned and the vegetables fresh and salty and the gravy tastes sweet. Loki drinks a bit of the wine to help wash the food down but Thor never touches his own glass. 

Someone laughs; it's coming for the entrance and it's the way young people laugh, it's fresh and nothing's holding it back and it's clear and reddish-pink and Thor puts the fork and knife down and looks over his shoulder and Loki looks too because he'd recognize this laughter anywhere.

It's Madison and he's walking in with his arm draped around this guy's neck. The short blonde guy he's with is wearing a beige suit but Madison has a pair of tight leather pants on and a black v neck with rips across the chest and shoulders. He has red roses tattooed on both arms and the blurred orange light makes it look like they're blooming and growing taller and taller, crawling up his skin, wrapping their willowy stems and thin leaves around his elbows, brushing their thorns over his flesh, seeking the bluish veins underneath. 

His lips are red and wet and parted and his smiling mouth is all darkness and snow-white teeth and his eyes are heavy, lids drooping low, lashes black like empty eye sockets and there's silver glitter in his hair and his boots are making so much noise it causes everyone to turn in their seats and stare. 

The guy in the beige suit says something to the headwaiter and then presses his mouth to Madison's ear and pulls him closer, grabbing him by the waist and making the fabric of his shirt crinkle. Madison looks down and listens and the man pulls his face away, squeezes Madison's side with his fingers before he makes his way to the men's room and the headwaiter leads Madison to an empty table, looking grim.

Loki puts the fork down and watches Madison stopping to lean against the wall, eyes closed, shoulders weak, waiting for the headwaiter to finish adjusting the menus near the glasses and let him sit down.

Thor looks at Loki and then at Madison again, "you know him?"

Madison covers his face with his hands and Loki gently pushes his plate away.

"Sir?"

Madison drops his hands and the headwaiter motions towards the table and Madison gives him a nod and crashes in a chair, stretching one leg under the table and pulling the other close to his chest, the heel of his boot leaving a harsh dent on the cream colored seat.

The headwaiter steps closer to Madison and says something to him and Madison puts his leg back down on the floor and the headwaiter looks relieved and hurries between the tables, hands clasped behind his back.

Madison leans back and runs his hands through his hair and thick chunks of silvery glitter litter the floor like falling snow, catching the light and leaving a shimmering blue spot in Loki's line of vision, a ghostly imprint, soon to fade away like it never existed. 

Madison throws his head back, letting his arms hang by his sides before he presses a cheekbone to shoulder blade and opens his eyes a bit to look around. When he spots Loki he smiles and Loki hears Augustine saying: "this guy smiles like an angel and the secret to immortality is right there in his kiss. Touch his lips and you'll taste heaven."

Madison pushes his chair back and he's swaying on his feet like a flag in the wind but he licks his lips and bites them and when he gets close enough he sits on Loki's lap. He smells like vodka and cherries and his pupils are huge, like bottomless black holes, ready to swallow entire planets and turn them into dust. And when he looks into Loki's eyes he smiles like a kid that doesn't want a beautiful day to end and he grabs Loki's face gently and runs his hands through Loki's hair, tucking it behind his ears over and over again, eyes soft and glassy.

His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and he tilts his head to look Loki in the eye.

"You okay?" he asks and it's a broken whisper and Loki nods slowly, wrapping an arm around Madison's waist to keep him from falling off.

"Yeah?"

And Loki looks at him and wants to cry because he can't see Madison like this; it's always bad and worse and it never gets better for him and he's only nineteen and this world is eating him alive. 

Loki nods again and Madison looks up, his Adam's apple a fragile cube of ice, veins and tendons visible under the thin skin of his neck.

Thor follows his gaze and Loki looks up too. The ceiling is all glass and you can see the stars through it and they look like grains of dust scattered all over the skies and Madison's eyes move slowly from one star to the other and he stretches one arm up and points.

"There you are," Madison says and Loki sees his own face among the stars and Madison smiles and his eyes lose a bit of their focus.

"I knew it," he says, "they tried telling me you're one of ours, but you're not, you're one of them, you're one of the stars and you'll live forever because stars never die. They burn out but their dust falls like rain and we breathe it and it becomes a part of us."

"Hey," Loki says and looks from one of Madison's eyes to the other, "what did he give you?"

Madison wraps an arm around Loki's neck and leans against him; Loki can feel Madison's heart racing like crazy against his own and his body burning like a white summer's day. Madison leans his chin on his forearm and presses his lips to the ends of Loki's hair. He looks over Loki's shoulder in the direction of the men's room and he's breathing with his mouth open.

"We had some Florida Snow," he says, "funny, right? It never snows in the summer. Does It ever snow in the summer?"

And Loki meets Thor's worried eyes and says quietly, "no, Maddy, it doesn't ."

"This guy," Madison says and swallows, "he loves snow so much it's coming outta his nose. He's got the winter inside him and he froze to death one night and a wolf took his heart away and ate it."

There's a black leather purse lying on its side on the table next to theirs. The woman the purse belongs to went outside to smoke and let the night air clear her head from all the wine and the sadness. Some stuff fell out of it-a little hand mirror, a few newspaper clippings, a pair of sunglasses and a tube of lipstick.

Madison takes the lipstick, removes the clear cap and there's the sweet smell of vanilla in Loki's nostrils and Madison runs his fingers over the lipstick and they come back red. He drops the tube on the woman's seat and spreads his fingers, holding his hand close to his face, admiring the rich pigment and the way it coats his skin like sin powder. 

Thor looks at Loki, not knowing what he can do to help, feeling lost and useless and Madison sits up and Loki tightens his grip on his waist. 

Madison smears all that red over his lips and runs a red thumb over Loki's mouth and Loki's lips soak all that pigment up, the same way some dry cracked earth would savor each and every drop of blessed rain after endless years of scorching heat governed by an insomniac sun.

"We think they're the ones eating our hearts and leaving us empty, but it's not them, it's us. We eat our own hearts because we think we don't deserve to be happy," Madison says and Loki licks his lips and the lipstick tastes bitter.

"But we do," Madison whispers and touches Loki's cheek and Loki leans his face against his palm.

Thor sits up. He spots the man in the beige suit making his way over, shoulders rigid, strides sharp, hands restless; Madison's not where he should be and the man looks around, tapping his fingers on the table, making the empty wine glasses shake and rattle.

Loki looks over his shoulder and the man spots Madison and marches over to their table.

"What's this?" the man says and smears the lipstick from the left corner of Madison's mouth all the way up to his ear, "what are you doing here? I told you to wait for me over there."

And he grabs the front of Madison's shirt and drags him to his feet and when Loki jumps to his feet Thor stands up too.

And Madison looks at the man's fingers all tangled up in the fabric of his shirt and laughs.

The man smacks him under the chin so his jaw snaps shut and then backhands him with such force it makes Madison stumble.

Loki lunges forward but Thor catches him in his arms and pulls him back. Loki twists in his arms like a river and Thor holds him tighter and the man grips Madison's face with his fingers and Madison sinks his teeth into the man's wrist.

"Ah!" the man hisses and bites his lips and tries to twist his hand free and Madison smiles and his teeth are stained red.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" and he yanks his hand harshly and Madison lets go and the headwaiter is there in a second and grabs the man by his shoulders and says: "sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This kind of behavior is unacceptable. Please leave or I'll call the police."

Thor releases Loki and Madison hugs Loki's neck with both arms.

"You okay?" Loki says in his ear and Madison pulls back and looks Loki in the eye.

"You deserve to be happy," he says and kisses Loki's cheek and his lips color Loki's skin red, "don't you forget that."

The man grabs Madison's arm and drags him towards the exit. Madison looks over his shoulder at Loki and smiles before the crowd of dresses and suits swallows him whole and Loki grabs the back of his chair and leans on it. 

"You alright?" Thor whispers in his ear and Loki looks out the window, watching Madison and that guy getting in the back of a silver car and he can hear Madison laughing and the spot where Madison's lips pressed against his skin feels warm and it tingles. 

Thor wants to touch Loki's shoulder but instead he motions the headwaiter over and asks for the check.

"Let's go," Thor says and Loki feels his warm breath on the side of his neck. Loki wipes his lips with his fingers and follows Thor outside. 

Their driver smells like smoke and the air is cold and there are bits of glitter scattered on the ground shining in the moonlight and the sweet smell of cherries is everywhere. 

Inside the car it's warm and Thor is quiet but Loki feels him looking at him in the dark and when they get to the mansion Thor turns to him and says: "It's been a long day. Go and get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

From the corner of his eyes, Loki watches Thor getting out of the car and making his way towards the tall doors; there's sadness to the way he's holding his shoulders and he walks slowly, hands in his pockets and the wind caresses his hair and his shadow is long and pale.

Loki sits there for a few minutes just breathing all that silence in and a light appears in one of the windows, soft and broken.

Loki gets out of the car and finds his room. He closes the door and without taking his suit off, lies on his side on the floor in a ray of moonlight and covers his face with his hands.


End file.
